


Nice Shirt: Purchased

by gloss



Series: Nice Shirt [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Clothing Kink, Gen, Multipart, awkward teen boys being stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 11:38:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Willow drags Xander to the flea market; even the most amends-y guy in the world deserves something for himself</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nice Shirt: Purchased

######   
[s1 after "The Pack" (1x6)]  


Xander went to the flea market only because Willow begged him to. He was still doing the amends-thing for being a hyena -- he'd offered to do all of Buffy's bio homework for the rest of the semester but, surprisingly, she hadn't taken him up on it -- and even though he was exhausted, he had excess energy to burn off. And Willow begged.

Willow, begging, is not the prettiest sight. *Cute*, but wearying, so he agreed quickly.

She disappeared into a maze of tables loaded down with books and he killed time by the racks of clothing.

Smelled a little like Rory's taxidermy lab in there, a little like his attic; neither was exactly a *nice* smell, but they were familiar and he'd certainly smelled a lot worse. Besides, it wasn't full of books -- he got enough books every day in the library -- and these were clothes he could actually afford. A dollar a shirt, three bucks for pants, and he had a twenty burning a hole in his pocket.

He found a cool corduroy jacket, a blue argyle sweater that felt like bunny rabbits and expensive toilet paper and other very soft things, a couple pairs of pants, and three wacky t-shirts. He was set, but there was no sign of Willow.

So he waited.

He'd memorized all the flowers on the rack of housedresses and the various wales of corduroy on the rack of jackets when Willow finally emerged. She was lugging a huge dictionary. Really huge, big as the gigantic baby on the cover of last week's _Weekly World News_, and probably heavier. It looked exactly like the one on the stand outside Giles' office.

"It *is* that one," she said. "And it's only fifteen dollars!"

"But -"

She nodded so vigorously that for a second, her hair hid her face and she looked like Cousin It. "It's worth way more."

"Not that you'd ever sell it." Xander put back the cardigan and the blue canvas pants.

"Well, no, but it *is* valuable. And, Xander, the guy was going to cut it up if he couldn't sell it. Cut out the plates and illustrations and maps --"

"Horror of horrors."

Willow frowned and clutched the book to her chest. "It *is* horrible. You know what Giles calls people like that? Scum."

"Giles might want to check his priorities. Scum's -- vamps are scum. Rapists. Taking the scissors to a book? Not --"

"No, *scum*. Get it? S-C-U-M. Sellers of Cut-Up Merchandise."

Stroking an invisible beard and squinting, Xander nodded. "Ah, yes. An antonym."

"Acronym."

"What I said. Dilate myself."

Pursing her lips, Willow shifted the book's weight to her hip. "So can I?"

Xander dug into his pocket and extracted the twenty, handing it to her. "Yeah, yeah. Glad my aborted landscaping enterprise can finance the growth of your already frightening vocabulary."

She would have bounced, Xander knew, if the book hadn't been weighing her down. As it was, she squeaked and grinned and squeaked again. "I could kiss you!"

Xander stepped back and went to hang up the corduroy jacket; summer was coming, so it wasn't as if he *needed* a jacket. "You could, but we both know that way lies madness."

Ducking her head, hair going over her face again, Willow shrugged, and Xander bit his lip. When he looked up, she was moving away.

He was left with the shirts, and suddenly he didn't want anything; nothing made him happy like that book did for Willow. Her hair shone in the late-afternoon light, all kinds of red that Crayola would know the names for, and she was chatting with the tired woman at the cashbox while her hand stroked the spine of the dictionary.

"Hey, Will --" he called, dumping the shirts on top of the pants, then grabbing the top one. "Toss this in there, would you?"

He threw the maroon shirt at her and Willow, never the most agile, lunged for it, missing it by a mile and stumbling.

"Sorry," Xander said, hurrying to help her up.

Willow flapped the shirt to shake off the dust and grass. "You really want this?"

He looked down at the buxom dame on the front of the shirt, the retro lettering announcing *Peep Show, 25 cents*, and nodded vigorously. "It's wacky, Will. And, um. Ironic?"

Willow just frowned and lay it on top of the dictionary. "It's kinda gross, actually."

"Yeah," Xander said, lying through his teeth. It was a cool shirt, a nice shirt, and even the most amends-y guy in the world deserved something for himself. "Totally gross."


End file.
